Besides, I don't have 1.9 billion dollars to spare

Are you an earthling?

If not, will you PLEASE

PLEASE

PPPLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAASSE

come get me and get me the fuck out of here?

And if you are, well... you're probably safe. I can't afford 8.01 billion bullets, or even a gun for that matter. Plus I have no taste for killing. Not even mercy-killings. Not even myself. Not even a mouse.

A mouse has been living in my room for a while now. On Friday I trapped him in my waste basket and promptly fucked up and let him get away. Being not too bright he almost immediately returned to the waste basket (where I'd recently discarded something peanut buttery) and I immediately trapped him again and then immediately fucked up and let him go again and then he returned again and I trapped him again and this time boxed him securely and with my walker I delivered him one block away and dumped him "into" the storm drain BUT he managed to land on the grate and took off back up the street like a fart in a wind storm.

I tootled back home and he was already back in my bedroom waiting for me. No mistake. It was definitely HIM. I recognize his physical... blemishes. He's no magazine model. 

At least I know how to trap him now and so I will again very shortly and this time flush him down the toilet and he can ride the sewer system down town. I don't think he'll get back from there.

I've been through the two worst crises of my life in the last year and I have gained some pretty deep and unexpected insights into the matter of suicide. It still makes no sense in most cases but I understand places the mind can go which make it seem very convincingly the only option. 

Other then being physically trapped and tortured or entering the dire late stages of a terminal illness... there is a last resort; something I've pondered since decades ago and something consolidated by Augusten Burroughs in his book This is How: Surviving What You Think You Can't, which I read a long while back because I was such a Burroughs fan as well as being very compelled at the time by the tragic phenomenon of teen suicide; especially gay teen suicide. The last resort being some combination of escape and starting over. I won't venture into the details at this time. They're not particularly new; likely not even to you.

I'm close to recovery from the critical injuries I endured eleven months ago. I'm roughly five months in to a campaign launched by key members of my family to destroy my fucking heart. 

They've not expressed specific complaints about me. They apparently claim to have nothing against me. But they're afraid of bed bugs at all cost.

ALL COST.

Imagine not letting someone into your home because you're afraid of bed bugs and associated potential costs in having them exterminated. Imagine believing that such a visitor is incapable of measures to ensure they are currently uncontaminated before visiting.

Easy to imagine perhaps? Now keep in mind that the spread of bed bugs in this manner is incredibly rare. I'll give you two reasons why. They don't choose to hang out on a human body. Their instinct is to feed and then run back into hiding. Bedbugs DO NOT normally transfer like a parasite or virus. They spread because a nest gets relocated because it's in luggage or some other relocated possession. Sometimes a bedbug might get caught up in clothing from an ill-timed feed (normally done in the middle of the night) when the host leaves the dining area and goes on the move. But not only does the critter need to remain on the host for the duration of the trip (in my case a combination of lengthy bus rides just for starters) but the critter can't be solo. You need a combination of bugs capable of breeding when they get to their new home. And BTW there are AT LEAST three compelling reasons why a successfully relocated solo critter is extremely unlikely to be a pregnant female.

Already the scenario being feared here is extremely unlikely but now... lets start heading down the rabbit hole: 

Imagine that the person you are sacrificing because of this fear of a very unlikely bad time is your brother or your son, who has always loved you and he is going through this very hard time and is particularly lonely and being with his family has been his ONE JOY in life for the last year and he is now kept from his young niece and nephew who had meant the world to him and imagine your son/brother also carries the life long scar from being closeted at a time when straight society were frankly maniacally evil towards gays and the scar of fear of being de-grouped from his friends; a common, if not universal gay man's PTSD, and now here he is being de-grouped from his family: You've uninvited him from Thanksgiving, passed him over for his dad's and brother's birthdays and from Christmas and his own birthday. And now Easter approaches and it's becoming evident that you're passing on him again while he fucking hurts like hell.

Still with me? Imagining this are you? Well hold on to your fucking hat because things are about to get holy fuck surreal. Are you sitting down?

Imagine now that the human being you've sacrificed who is a brother you might profess to love if you were capable of saying the word despite whatever emotional disability you might likely have inherited from your completely emotionally-dysfunctional father who is such a sad broken emotional automaton he can't even hug his own sons, or a son you would never profess to love because you are that automaton; imagine... that this dear relative of yours that you will not allow to visit...

is not even a host of bed bugs. Imagine that he doesn't have bed bugs and never has.

Imagine that you are afraid because he has a neighbor three doors down who.... has...? bedbugs...?

No no. Wait. There's more. Imagine that this son/brother you've so easily crushed in fact does not have such a neighbor. Imagine that he had such a neighbor up until two months ago when that neighbor threw out his possessions and received the second of three sprayings and no bedbugs have been present in the building for two months.

Are you doing the math? Does this seam utterly fucking nuts to you?

If so, that's only because it is. It's nuts beyond my ability to grasp. It's inhumanly cruel beyond my ability to grasp and I am done with it now. When I think of my family it hurts too much and I AM NOT going on with this any more. I cannot survive this pain.

I can only survive by not thinking about them; by forgetting they exist.

Even if they suddenly invited me to Easter, it's almost certainly too late. I know that at my best I can be capable of forgiveness; forgiveness for the stupidity, forgiveness for the insult and even forgiveness for the cruelty.

But could I ever respect them again or find a fondness for them again? I don't know about that. I doubt it. I do know that I'll never be able to trust them again.

But that's me in my BEST moments, on my best days. Keep in mind that this nut fuckery is only the bulk of the iceberg.  All my closest allies have devolved into pixelated zoom and skype characters. I am the loneliest fucker on the planet and the zooming and skyping have become a torture. They just mock me; remind my of my loneliness while the so-called "conversations" on these platforms are logistically dysfunctional. I feel no closeness looking at the fuzzy pictograms of people I once sensed I loved. I'm very dead inside. Love has crept into hiding.

What I foresee happening; as per the second of three modes I seem to inhabit now, emotionally, is not suicide but escape and starting over. Escape. Disappear; especially from the internet, change my name and begin a new life which is not filtered through a computer, befriended to anyone who wants to see me live in person. I'll give my address to the world around me. I'll be open for business. Visitors welcome 24-7. I do feel like that's where this is all going. I have felt it for months now.

As for my worst moments; my worst days; like times I think of the people who were once my family; those times... I find myself honesty wishing that every earthling would be gone and I was the last man on Earth. Seems strange eh? For someone afflicted with crippling loneliness... but that's how I often feel.

Maybe because if I was truly alone, then no one could disgust me. No one could disappoint me. No one could hurt me.

But don't worry. That's not a scenario I'm capable of manifesting.

BRIEFLY: the holes in my life

Let's play a game called Here's What I Don't Have What So Fucking Ever! I'll go first!

1. bedbugs

2. a family

3. love

4. any hope of happiness

5. suspenders

6. visitors

7. a giant pet turtle

8. a wine cellar full of wine

9. emotions

10. a plan

11. a vagina

12. steak

13. remaining interest in this asinine activity

TLDR

Woke up to the sounds of Chrisaster Artist (Chrisaster for short) knocking dishes around in the kitchen while babbling to himself and slamming cupboard doors. It was 1:30AM or so and my movie, Dragonslayer was over, I'd probably fallen asleep in the first five minutes which is fine. I took off my hat, headphones and CPAP mask, moved the laptop off my lap, hauled myself to a sitting position, flexed my legs for a while to gain sufficient strength, heaved myself to a standing position, slipped on shoes and went next door to pee.

Chrisaster spotted me, made some kind of joke about fighting me. I told him it looks like he's busy fighting the kitchen. He cackled like a lunatic and agreed. I squirted and returned to bed, re-cocooned myself and managed to nod off again during a second episode of Comedians in Cars Getting Seinfelded.

Woke up around 4:30 AM to more smashing and babbling from the Most Disgusting Housemate on Earth (Chrisaster for short). He then camped out in the washroom singing songs about being a legend and so on. Chrisaster has a chrisasterous drug problem if I haven't mentioned.

Tried to sleep. Couldn't. Had chocolate-hazelnut breakfast instead of cereal because it was within reach.

Made Irish coffee. Grabbed my coat, hat, notebook, treat bag and walker and toddled out to the sidewalk. Sat in the very very barely present drizzle and sipped. No cat friends or dog friends came by. Got cold and passed on the morning walk. I'll try again later presumably.

Sat in the kitchen, joked with Eugenius and The Bro, and talked about ways we might be able to murder Chrisasterous Crap Head Parasite Weasel and get away with it while said weasel continued singing, babbling and slapping himself behind his closed door. B and E have bedrooms in his immediate vicinity so they were up all night. I only get driven to the brink of murderousness when he slinks and staggers into the kitchen for a few minutes or hours. We've devised many assassination plots but all are cost-prohibitive thus far. Our budget is roughly 45 cents. We're all on ODSP. Bro made us Ethiopian coffee. I covertly Irishized mine (with Irish whiskey BTW; not Baileys. I'm not crazy. That I know of).

The Bro made some progress getting my phone to work more properly. I had gone nuts deleting and disabling apps, trying to make it stop chirping at me for no reasons that I understood. I hate distraction; not just instinctively but because I know very well how distraction has destroyed minds and nations for the last thousand years and how it's still getting worse all the time. Bro seemed to lure my keyboardy widget back into occasional functionality.   

Well. This post couldn't be more boring if I tried. I hope you didn't read it.

Attempt #2

 ... at describing my morning! Not at taking my life! Ha ha ha ha ha! Did I scare you there! Well, don't be such a chicken shit next time!

Lucky (or unlucky?) for me, I am definitely a chicken shit once again so... Nothing news-worthy is going to happen around here.

Let me try to recall that morning: I washed some of the last few dishes from Turkey Fest. Most were done the night before. Took my meds. Went for my walk. Had a coffee which is VERY important!

Now that love is out of my life (had to put it on injury reserve) and I cannot afford a proper addiction to take it's place, I have had to promote coffee from the practice squad to first string. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I gave a generous portion of fishy niblets to Ginger (Kevin) Ferraro and a large milkbone to Moose. He had the Mama translator in tow that morning; not the Papa, and he gave her no choice. Just pulled her to me and drooled all over my coat while I fished out a biscuit. Then he wanted to eat the garlic bread with cheese that I was eating for breakfast but I did not relent. Mama finally dragged him away.

I thought about my family who are boycotting me, trying to force me to do what they think I should. Their ideas are incorrect. My fear is not that they won't relent. My fear is that I won't forgive them. I have dear friends and uncles and aunts who are too medically unstable and either that's why they don't see me anymore or that's the excuse. Maybe I'm just intolerable and don't know it! And then there's Aqualad who is just too busy for me and the Eloquent Potter who lives far off in the Big Smoke and has no car.

All the people I love are not available to me except online and I would rather die than go on pretend-living online. Fuck online. Fuck it.

[he says on his blog.] 

I am empty empty empty empty inside. I now understand why people have addictions I think. Everyone needs to need something. The delusion of identity I suppose. And when it's not people, it has to be things. I can't afford drugs or alcohol or gambling which all sound great. Sex is certainly out of the question.

Empty empty empty empty empty.

Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do.

The facts of life

Fact #1: Everybody poops.

Fact #2: Everybody dies.

Fact #3: Everybody poops when they die.

Fact #4: Fact #3 might not be a fact. It's actually just something I've heard.

I mean - I understand the physiology. But what if someone pooped, like normally, and wiped and everything, and then seventeen seconds later they died. Would they still poop again? Would they poop just a tiny tiny tiny bit? I suppose we could arrange an experiment around this but really, I'm not that eager to solve this riddle. Fuck it. Let's not give it another thought.

Fact #5: I have a hole in my heart the size of Tokyo and I cannot imagine still being alive when Christmas rolls around. I would very very very very very very very very much like to please cancel Christmas this year.

Okay. That's not likely to happen. Fine. Well... just know that if it kills me, the turd that I leave behind was not intended a holiday gift to you all and in no way reflects my feelings toward your character or your performance as a supposedly human being - or bona fide human being if you're one of the special few! And hey, if you're reading this blog, you probably are!

 

I don't want to die in the city

He was perhaps the last of the old-fashioned lumberjacks.

He worked through old and new and crippling pains, through vicious weather, through the irritants of weaker men, through loneliness.

He survived injury and trees that tried to kill him and dullards who dared to talk at the dinner table.

He befriended the forest, the wind, the horses and dogs.

He succumbed to narrow thinking and... temptation.

He soured in prison, aged in captivity, eroded in the city; a new prison: confined to the streets, the basement market and bookshops, an apartment in the sky with his bookshelves and little gardens. He stared out the windows for years at the grid of rooftops and grey horizons and never a forest in sight.

"I don't want to die in the city," he said, but it had to be inevitable.

He respected women and indigenous peoples and animals and tired drearily of men but he took to me for reasons I don't understand. And so I tolerated him for reasons I don't need to understand. I promised we'd take a trip when it became possible. We'd go see the trees (that tried to kill him). But then I too fell to physical ruin.

A new friend took up his cause. They won a reprieve. She had a car. They fled the city, saw the trees and the lakes.

They left the shore on a boat. He left the boat and in the water he was free of the tyranny of useless legs, but not of an old tired heart. "I don't feel good," he said suddenly to her; the woman on the boat. And the water moved over him and secured his escape from the city.

I haven't spared as much thought for the Lonely Lumberjack because Grandma passed away the same day and frankly she was dearer to me.

I remember that day when Carlos brightened and dropped a shield and declared a revelation; it's okay to ask for help. And soon thereafter he released this poem; my favourite.

My entire life
I have walked
Whatever path alone
Forged ahead
No matter what
Emotions not ever betraying
My stern face

Lately, I have made
A pleasant discovery
It sort of
Crept up on me

To always be alone
Is not
Who I have to be

To bend; accept help
Is to develop
A trust

Not to be like
An old machine
That gradually
Submits
To
Rust

- The Lonely Lumberjack

Today is the first day...

... of a new era: life without grandparents. 

I was blessed to have six of them, and blessed to have one who outlasted the rest by decades. She was a living great great grandmother. Five generations living at once; four now.

She was simple, kind, loving; ever dependable in these traits; as unpretentious as it gets. She liked bingo and phone calls from relatives. She played her Nintendo (NES) for decades after the rest of us moved on. We used to meet for breakfasts on a regular basis and we thought we were near the end of the long pause; thought we were gonna finally get together again soon. But time ran out. That's okay. Little pains and hardships had long grown into major ones. She was ready to call it quits I think.

I'm grateful for all the time and love she gave me. I'm glad she is not suffering. I'm hoping my aunt and uncle are... okay. It must be real hard to lose a great mom.

Love you.

NDR

The hardest letter I've ever had to write

January 8th, 2022

Hi Uncle Stan. I guess I'd better choose my words carefully since you probably don't want to waste your precious time reading a bunch of drivel; am I right? So... I'll be sincere and hopefully concise.

I don't really know, of course, how you'd like to spend your time. Please don't spare a shred of it being polite to me if you have better things to do, such as people to attend who you have seen more than three times in your life!

Right now, thanks to internet voodoo, I'm looking at your house in Parksville where you were a generous host, in more ways than one, to myself and dear friend Tyler. I've never forgotten your fine spirit and humour, nor the excellent treat it was, connecting with you at my brother's wedding. It really was grand that you made it out! Your presence was a highlight. It seems like just yesterday.

I hear scientists and geniuses suggesting that time as we know it is an illusion and I love science but time sure feels to me like one beast of a commodity right now.

I also appreciate that science has not availed all the answers as yet; such as the precise fate and function of neural activity, its info-rich electromagnetic field, the "illusion" of consciousness and the exciting possibilities derived from they and their relationships, and the places they might possibly be equipped to exist, besides in human tissues.

What I mean is: I hope that you have an adventure ahead of you. I hope that time bends for you in a way that feels eternal.

After all, this fearsome universe with all its dire forces seems to have made some spectacularly unlikely accommodations in this little corner, to offer us this brave miraculous tiny paradise of ours. Such a strange kindness! Why shouldn't it have also kicked some useful dents into the cruel structure of time while it was at it? Maybe you will discover this! 

And if not, maybe that's okay? Maybe the adventures behind you are the greater treasure? I've heard some of them! You surely have lived! Memories are the counterpart to time I suppose, and better than any gold, don't you think?

I remember very specific exchanges from our few conversations. Your thoughts were entertaining and richer in profundity than most.

Though I cannot regard the passing from this life as tragedy, It surely can feel that way, and I am rather empathetic and very heavy with the emotion of it now, especially to think of Rose and the girls. I had the most excellent conversation with Michelle at our one opportunity some years back. I thought she was wonderful!

So I expect you will be appropriately popular for awhile and have many persons and interests well ahead of me on your pecking order. But if I should rate for any reason, I'd be honoured to trade notes or skype with you. I'm without a phone at this moment. That could change any day. 

Otherwise I'd be thrilled to receive any offerings from you, including thoughts or stories which have been copied and pasted from your communications with others. By all means leverage your time and efforts. You're a celebrity now.

Well... I hope my tone here has conveyed the respect and gravity I feel. If I have seemed too casual I did not intend to.

Please know that I'm grateful to have shared this planet with you and I cherish the distinctive and noble mark you have contributed to my impression of our excellent family. 

I wish you peace and courage.

With love, your nephew,

I thought that this communication and any which might follow would stay between my uncle and I, but it appears this message may not have reached him. So I share it with the Great and Powerful Internet instead. Today is the day of his final appointment; when his suffering is ceased. He is 84 and has acknowledged that he has had a good life.

Cheers, Uncle

Better than okay

“Are you okay?”

In the days between the Liaison’s death and his funeral, many people asked this of me. Many were writers who were inspired by him or were grateful for his excellent leadership or grateful for the individual personal help he gave them at times. Everyone knew he was special. These writers I refer to, who asked me, “are you okay?” are ones who did not often see him outside of November NaNoWriMo but who knew that I did, and assumed I had some closer relationship to him than they did.

I don’t necessarily know that I did.

It’s interesting, this specific gesture of concern which we typically offer. Are you okay?

We might be genuinely concerned or we might feel it’s appropriate or expected of us to express concern, or some combination. We might not even know for sure the composition of our own motive. It might just be a habit to some degree. I suspect in this case that most of them were genuinely concerned, or at least just genuinely wanted to express something. When we’re confronted with something resembling a tragedy we feel moved to be useful somehow. By expressing concern we either gain the opportunity to be helpful (depending on the response) or else we can at least check off the box that says I tried. Either way, in our effort to be comforting we have comforted ourselves; assured ourselves that we have done what we could.

I don’t mean to be cynical by this. I too would be inclined to offer these words in many such circumstances, and I feel that my associates here are sincere.

What is interesting is that I am very much okay. I have been in tears at times; perhaps most so in sick boy’s embrace who was weeping very intensely at the time. Thus I did likewise, much out of empathy.

Empathy is at play almost any time I shed tears; which I do often but rarely out of personal sadness; indeed almost never from personal sadness. I cry for the reason that all people cry: intense emotion. That most people associate tears with sadness is because sadness is the emotion most people find themselves experiencing most intensely. This is a troubling reflection on our society. I tend to experience most intensely other emotions altogether, which I am grateful for.

I am well aware that death is no tragedy. Only failure of life is a tragedy; one hugely present in this too-often shallow consumer society. Death too often marks the deadline where the FAIL stamp comes crashing down. But not in this case. There may indeed be many deeper experiences in which the Liaison had yet to find opportunity. But what he did with his time was so much worth celebrating. Within his own limits he expanded very much is influence and his own spirit. And he spent his time very well, serving what he loved and serving others.

Am I okay? Yes. I am more than okay.

In the case of the Liaison’s passing I mostly cried out of -- what? Not despair; that’s for certain. Can I define what it was? something in the realms of love and joy and inspiration? I was emotionally moved out of celebration! I witnessed how much he meant to people. I witnessed one of the most meaningful achievements in life; that of improving the lives of others. Truly: I cried from the beauty of it.

Departing

Well, this piece got away from me… as some do. Oh well. I post it intact:

The Liaison’s funeral was not a big one. His influence manifested mostly through the wires to many locales beyond Scooterville. But I think that both his family and co-workers may have been surprised by the extent of outreach from the writing community. More than a hundred writers sent words of comfort or even flowers (and we accounted for a good third of the attendance). I was proud of sick boy’s moving speech at the event which helped to crystallize this for everyone.

His boss was a very sweet man who spoke very kindly of him. I was grateful for this brief insight into the other side of the Liaison’s life and said so later to the fellow, on the lawn, as we shook hands, both failing to hold back tears entirely. We’re likely to meet for a drink at some point.

The brother also spoke, of their childhood struggles for one thing, and it was very sincere and moving.

Then the final speaker was a soulless troglodyte named Pastor F.U. or thereabouts, who had never met the Liaison once in his life but who felt empowered to condescend to us with the usual outrageous doublethink concerning atheism versus faith and the inane ass-backwards idea that belief provides meaning in life.

I tried not to walk out. I reminded myself that I was here for the prime purpose of supporting the Liaison’s family. I thought carefully; realized I could not in any good conscience give permission to this hijacking, got up and walked out and waited in the parking lot to take my assigned passengers to the cemetery. I hoped very much that I had not caused a scene in any way; that I made no one other than the troglodyte uncomfortable. I did not want this event to be about me and my principles. Dog Whisperer, despite being an employee of a church, came to find me afterwards and issued firm support. She wanted to follow me out but her seating was trapped in essence. So that was a comfort to hear.

It can be immensely sad to reflect on the apparently-growing collective human insanity. It is not only the swiftly-deteriorating economic and environmental systems which point to impending disaster. It is the realization that almost nobody among the privileged societies which steer the world has any regard for truth, but only the addiction to the clinging to falsehoods derived from cherry-picked factoids, peddled by the world’s grotesquely-untrustworthy horde of priests, politicians and corporate-sponsored mouthpieces: whichever ones happen to peddle the particular bullshit which is most flattering, convenient or profitable to the ultimately self-serving and self-righteous listener.

We created a society wherein there is no requirement, regard or reward for truth (except in the field of science which cannot function without it - and look how the field of science is routinely maligned by the above perpetrators), a society riddled with problems which will not be solved because problems are not solved without truth.

But truth is so buried. The internet is surely 99% rubbish. And we’re so busy chasing our unfortunate addictions there is no time for the average person to unearth truth. We need specialists devoted to it. I am trying to do just that I suppose, but society does not include this in the ledger of currency nor afford a framework for accountability.

Where oh where are the people who can summon the courage to just want the truth no matter what it is? No matter how unflattering, how inconvenient, how unprofitable it might be? Are you out there? You’re certainly not in the youtube comment section; I know that.

And if you exist, where do you turn to for real news? for real authority? Where are the leaders or other powerful voices who only want to report truth without personal interest? Probably the Buddha, probably the real Jesus of Nazareth prior to being exploited and misquoted and misunderstood. Einstein of course. Likely Eckhart Tolle. Likely that dude who wrote the Four Hour Work Week! Read Tolle by the way, for goodness sake.

I’m not going to be falsely humble. I am a devoted adept of truth on my good days and frankly, even on my mediocre days. I was a self-identified Catholic who denied my tribe when I learned it untrue. I gave up my position as a climate-change denier when the truth became all-too apparent. I walked away from my sports tribes when I learned of their delusion. I have largely given up many instinctive tribal mind comforts having learned of their treachery. I even gave up my self-image as a good person, prepared to accept that I was an evil person if that was where the pursuit of truth led me - which it did - for a while. Somehow (through very fortunate circumstance) I was afforded a certain brand of courage that I can see almost nowhere else.

I wish I knew how to tell my story. I wish that people would know what I know: that the reward for this kind of courage is utterly freeing and joyful and transformative; transcending even, and that the fears which contain you will be revealed illusion! Where are the champions of truth to lead us? I appear not to have what it takes, nor where to find such a congregation.

Afterimage

The Liaison, so far as I currently understand, had three basic categories of friends: Writing friends online from around the world, writing friends online who he met in person at various writing retreats and workshops, including some of the most committed and robust programs out there, and writing friends online who he also knew in person right here in Scooterville including myself, Sick Boy and Chess Champ, each of whom you might glimpse in the video below.

His dearest friend of all is the very sweet and deep-minded Cerulean Blue, a constant online companion from Europe, who has flown out here many times for extended vacations with him. She is a satellite member of our local NaNo chapter and our little year-long writing sub-group.

I sense that their companionship is of some special design of their own which they need explain to no one, and I sense that this was the only non-familial relationship of any significant intimacy in the Liaison’s living experience and I am very glad that he had it.

When Cerulean first appeared on the scene I was troubled by an email from her in which I sensed a pre-mature attachment to us and unwarranted worry over subtle interpretations of online encounters which I personally viewed as inconsequential. I thought it inappropriate that she would presume that we had some kind of deep friendship at stake when we’d never even met in person and I was not shy at the time to try to firmly inform her of this.

In the end, it appears that she was on the right track. I came to sense a special friendship between us and now I wonder why I have seen so little of her when she has spent most of her time here in Scooterville with brief returns to her home abroad, ever since November when the Liaison fell ill. The blame is surely my own.

Now that he’s gone and with her next return flight scheduled for the day after his funeral (in essence a coincidence) there remains for her a couple of free days and a couple of partly free days and no one for her to give constant care for.

Yesterday those of us available took her out for the afternoon, which slipped gently into the evening. We went exploring with no urgency or real agenda, with a strong bond in our hearts and common private thoughts on our minds - of a sweet boyish man whose hard-felt absence seems to have washed away the tensions of tentative friendship between we of very sensitive, but otherwise diverse personalities.

I will see Cerulean at least two more times before she goes away. Given the pain she has endured here, I doubt she will ever come back. And my own chances of ever getting to Europe are slim. It is with significant heaviness that I consider a likely-final farewell. I wonder how her life will change now, with such a significant absence, and how comfortably she might endure a continued online relationship with us, where triggers may abound.

Today the same gang will go hiking and what-not without me but with the excellent Healer and her canine companion Doctor Snuggles.

I hope they all feel the same love which I did yesterday and which I attempted to capture here:

Hello Goodbye, pt. 2

Part Two: Goodbye

It was Aqualad who pointed out the noise.

“Don’t you hear it?” he said. “It’s a squeak or something. Every half-minute. Is it Ezri?”

Ezri is the old toy poodle belonging to Kate, my housemate. I finally tune in to the noise. Like a distant intermittent squawk. I never would have noticed it if not for Aqualad. “No. She’s never made a noise like that.”

The boys are packing up for the night. Aqualad knows that stairs are not my best thing and offers to investigate. Later he returns. “Yeah, it’s Ezri. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

We do our goodbyes and I climb the stairs to find the old dog lying in an awkward position on the bedroom carpet. She issues a brief weak squawk. I help her to adjust herself but she lies limp. I pull the bowl to her and bring the water surface right to her nose. She sniffs and is not interested.

I pick her up and carry her downstairs. I recline on the couch, her in my arms. The pitiful intermittent noise continues, not often, but regular. Is she in pain? I start to believe so.

Messages to Kate and to her partner go unanswered. What I don’t know is that they are in a movie theatre; the late show.

Ezri’s yelps vary in frequency as I adjust her, trying different positions.

Do I take her to the emergency vet again? As I did so recently and to no benefit but for a costly bill? Legally I have no right to subject another person’s animal property to medical treatment. Not that that’s an issue. I would claim to have such consent and the vet would comply.

I try occasionally to offer water, bringing it to her face. Once she samples it.

I do not know this dog anymore. She stays upstairs all the time. I do not know what her current normal is; what to judge this behavior against. I know not if this dog is going through a bad health period or if this is a dog approaching her end of days. It looks like the latter from my outsider’s view, but how can I know? What does Kate see? Is she reading temporary into something that is not? Is this dog being cruelly kept alive out of love? Or should I say, attachment?

Blessedly the dog falls asleep. Her breaths lengthen. The whimpers cease. I am so grateful for her respite from distress. It abides my indecision.

We are at peace. I’m comfortable holding her until the girls arrive home. We have been two hours on the couch. Ezri awakens and I share my concerns. From Kate’s point of view the decline has been swift. It’s been hard for her to decipher if this all has been a health anomaly or a final migration. She reveals that there has been a seizure. She is very sad, and grateful for what comfort I could give.

The next afternoon there is a knock at my door. “It’s time,” says Kate’s partner. “We’re going to the vet…” and saying goodbye, I interpret.

“Let me drive you,” I say.

A catalog is proffered and fawned over with a calculated attempt at tact. Kate views the costly trophies with discomfort. “You have collars at home; toys, photographs; right?”

“Yeah.”

“So you have mementos. You don’t need to buy artificial ones to prove you loved her. You don’t need to prove anything.”

On the steel table Ezri lies inert but eyes wide open. I stroke her softly. This last year she has been such a quiet dog. No barking. Nothing stimulates a deaf dog.

“You’ve been an excellent housemate,” I whisper. I kiss her firmly on the muzzle. Kate is weeping. I depart the exam room and leave this little family some privacy.

Death has come within my reach yet again and for once – for once – I have handled it competently.  

The end of the search

"I couldn't possibly join the search party," I said to my guests. "I walked 11 KM last night at work. I'm a wreck." Indeed they had witnessed my slow painful descent on the staircase.

When we broke for dinner, off to pick up something cheap, the giant police van was still there, down the lane, and the mounted police and the crowd, and the ambulance crew still waiting around hopefully, the stretcher all ready to go, laden with life-saving gear, piled on it and hanging off of it with just enough room left upon it for an undersized twelve year-old; just 60 pounds worth, should one turn up.

The boy had health issues, an under-developed mentality and a penchant for hiding. He'd limped away without shoes and without his medications. He couldn't have gone far, everyone said. We'd all checked our garages and backyards and even our closets. And later we checked them again.

When darkness came I checked the internet, sure he must have been found. "I'm sorry," I told my guests. "I'm really at loose ends." They understood. We called it a night.

The crowd had dwindled down to a few. The officer said, "I'm sorry, we can't suggest what you should do. After dark it's not safe. We can't ask anything of the public after dark."

"Look," I said, knowing I was about to be profoundly lame: "I'm a Commissionaire. I have training. I know safety; first-aid. I've worked in corrections. I've worked with sex offenders. Trust me. Be indulgent. Tell me where you need someone looking."

He smiled painfully. shook his head and shook my hand. "Anywhere."

People had been searching all day. What was I going to accomplish by following their tracks in the dark? Was there a really any chance at all I could save someone or was this just about comforting myself?"

Still willing to act like a fool I called an old friend who believed she was psychic; who'd dreamed of missing children before and believed in the visions; who'd once told me that my writer's blocks were nothing but fear. But I could not reach her on the phone.

I stared at the Google map and all my intuition pointed at the golf course.

A golf course is a dark dark alien world at night, the ground invisible and treacherously hilly; the greens and ponds indistinguishable at a distance. A sky full of stars that portend nothing. I'd expected to run into other hopefuls there but there were none.

I had to be sparing with the flashlight batteries. A discarded shopping bag; a lost towel, things like these became a white Special Olympics t-shirt in the dark and I fumbled to turn on the beam with hope and dread. "What the fuck am I doing here?" I kept asking. And why aren't my legs hurting? What's up with that?

The route I had planned went out the window the moment I left the parking lot. I had no clue where I was and it didn't matter. I was pretty sure I'd twist and ankle soon and roll down a hill and in the morning some golfers - or searchers - would find me instead of the boy and I'd have to apologize for their disappointment.

In the morning I talked to neighbors. I could not share their optimism. Abductions are very rare, I know, but nothing else made sense at this point. He was small and walked with a limp. Yet again I thought of his parents and yet again I had to push the thought away. I cannot imagine. It's unimaginable.

This afternoon the phone rang but I could not get it because I was busy holding the roommate's ancient shadow of a dog in an ersatz standing position so she could drink from her bowl; an accomplishment too rare to dare interrupt.

The message was from a friend. "They found him! I don't know any details but they found him!"

"Yes!" I shouted at the ceiling. "Yes! Yes!" I squeezed into shoes and bustled outside. "They found him?" I asked at the first gathering. They had. He'd gone in precisely the opposite direction as the golf course. All along he'd been a few dozen yards away from my own backyard in some kind of drainage tunnel. So close! How had they missed him again and again?

"Is he okay?"

None were eager to answer. "I don't think so," said the man.

"He's pretty sick?"

"The paramedics didn't go to the boy," said the woman. "They went to the mother."

100 Must-See Films! -- Nazis

"One of the struggles of art, in dealing with the holocaust is that the reality exceeds the capacity of the imagination. Had it not really happened, no novelist, writer, thinker could have ever touched this experience without somehow exceeding any bounds of the capacity for art."—Alan J. Pakula, Director

51. Valkyrie (2008, USA/Germany)

Tom Cruise, Bill Nighy, Carice van Houten, Terence Stamp, Christian Berkel, Kenneth Branagh, Kevin McNally

This captivating film of historical intentions celebrates the story of hero Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg and his high-ranking co-conspirators in their hugely perilous, selfless and sacrificial attempt to bring down the most diabolical monster in modern (if not all of) history. Political and financial barriers hampered the effort to produce this film as did Germany’s heightened mistrust of star Tom Cruise’s religious ties. Nevertheless, privileged filming locations were achieved and the quality of this film, and certainly Cruise’s performance, emerged top-notch in every aspect.

It’s a thrilling, tense, suspenseful ride, in some ways despite, and in some ways, because of, our foreknowledge of how it didn’t all work out.

It’s a comfort to be reminded that there were plenty of German good guys in all of that tragedy; including some of mankind’s bravest heroes.

Writers: Nathan Alexander, Christopher McQuarrie (Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation) 

Director: Bryan Singer (The Usual Suspects)

Budget: $75,000,000

IMDB rating: 7.1

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-YppIQUiE9Y

52. Pan’s Labyrinth (2006, Spain/Mexico/USA)

Ivana Baquero, Ariadna Gil, Sergi López

A young girl must navigate the creepy unnatural circumstances at a remote mill-come-military outpost in Nazi-occupied Spain in addition to the landscape of a creepy unnatural fantasy world. A sinister presence pervades. Danger lurks at every turn. Where will she find safety? This film drags you into her harrowing journey with deep-chilling button-pushing intimacy. I only saw this intense, visually enchanting film once; nine years ago, but I will never ever forget it.

“Beautiful and exhilarating;” says Ebert, “a fairy tale for grownups.”

Writer/Director: Guillermo del Toro (Pacific Rim)

Budget: €13,500,000

IMDB rating: 8.2

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Evmr2ZCjWc

53. Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981, USA)

Harrison Ford, Karen Allen, Paul Freeman

Here the Nazis are little more than caricatures, as perhaps the whole cast is. I consider this one of the earliest and most influential flicks that turned the B-film tradition into a mainstream big-budget industry. Did a sinking sophistication of the average movie-goer demand this innovation or did the innovation drive the evolution of mind?

Most unfortunately, the multi-film Indiana Jones enterprise then went on to embrace the celebration of civilization-wide ADHD, dumping loads of subtlety faster than a Boston Tea Party in order to craft a succession of 2-hour action scenes where the climaxes are indistinguishable from any other stage of the so-called-story; the hallmark of the shallow frenetic modern action movies which now clog theatres with lemmings but which put me to sleep.   

Raiders remains magic for sheer fun and for occupying that historical sweet-spot!

Writer: George Lucas (American Graffiti), Lawrence Kasden (The Big Chill), Phil Kaufman (The Right Stuff)

Director: Steven Spielberg (Jaws)

Budget: $18,000,000

IMDB rating: 8.5

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dg-KoFP1guw

54. Sophie’s Choice (1982, UK/USA)

Meryl Streep, Peter MacNicol, Kevin Kline

Sweet, unsettling and finally harrowing. This lead role, among all roles conceived, must be among the most challenging ever to portray. This character has baggage coming out her ying-yang. But along comes Meryl Streep who delivers the most moving and convincing performance I have ever personally acknowledged. Stunning and unforgettable.

The film’s title is a double-blind pit trap. The obvious choice in terms of present circumstance pales in comparison to the real choice, an existential one. But finally revealed is the choice from the past; that which lies at the root of everything; that which can never be recovered from; that which is distressing to ponder: that any human could have imagined it.

Writers: Alan J. Pakula (The Pelican Brief), William Styron (Shadrach)

Director: Alan J. Pakula (All the President’s Men)

Budget: $12,000,000

IMDB rating: 7.7

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STPJVf6wqCk

Short List:

Fateless (2005, Hungary/Germany/UK/Israel/France) Marcell Nagy, Béla Dóra, Bálint Péntek

Lore (2012, Germany/Australia/UK) Saskia Rosendahl, Kai-Peter Malina, Nele Trebs

Island on Bird Street (1997, Denmark/Germany/UK/France) Patrick Bergon, Jordan Kiziuk, Jack Warden

100 Must-See Films! -- Justice

Today's films concern moral decisions with lives in the balance, and time running out:

35. Dead Man Walking (1995, UK, USA)

Susan Sarandon, Sean Penn

"Absorbing, surprising, technically superb and worth talking about for a long time afterward," said Roger Ebert of this film that is loaded with heart-wrenching emotional tension. The delicate performances constructed by Sarandon, Penn and director Robbins (all Oscar nominated) were beautifully crafted and executed with gentle precision and genuine emotion.

The result is a heavy experience: Devastating scenes and an overriding moral dilemma which cannot be ignored or easily resolved. Sarandon won for Best Actress.

Writers: Helen Prejean (the novel), Tim Robbins

Director: Tim Robbins (Cradle Will Rock)

Budget: $11,000,000

IMDB rating: 7.6

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgvbfLNYumU

36. Return to Paradise (1998, USA)

Vince Vaughan, Anne Heche, Joaquin Phoenix

Time is inexorably running out for an unwitting American in a stark and brutal foreign prison while his friend attempts to navigate a horrendous moral decision. The tension grows with cruel certainty.

This film is often compared to the more-widely celebrated Midnight Express (1978) but clearly more cerebral and less visceral. Return gets my nod for this list because to me, fear is always more palpable in the dungeons of the mind than in those of stone.

Roger Ebert gave it 3.5 stars out of 4.

Writers: Pierre Jolivet (Force majeure), Oliver Schatzky (Fortune Express) 

Director: Joseph Ruben (Sleeping with the Enemy)

Budget: $14,000,000

IMDB rating: 6.9

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kF_SgjiAQxI

37. Philadelphia (1993, USA)

Tom Hanks, Denzel Washington, Mary Steenburgen, Jason Robards, Charles Napier, Antonio Banderas

This very first big-budget film to tackle the AIDS crisis and to portray homosexuals sensitively and responsibly changed the trend in Hollywood, however some voices from the gay community bashed the film for its apparent fear of depicting gay affection between the characters of Hanks and Banderas. Such scenes had in fact been filmed then cut, but a bedroom scene was re-inserted for the DVD edition.

More importantly, the film effectively agitates the audience over the harrowing injustice of AIDS discrimination and may have had a significant impact on that improved landscape, now 23 years later. To boot, the film tackled the equally mindless taboo of inter-racial coupling.

The soundtrack bears mention with Springsteen’s Streets of Philadelphia winning Best Original Song Oscar against Neil Young’s Philadelphia; also nominated; a unique Oscar tableau as far as I know. To this day I still find both of this film’s co-themes deeply emotionally haunting whenever I hear them.

Here’s a special Oscar moment from that year:

Writer: Ron Nyswaner (The Painted Veil)

Director: Jonathan Demme (The Silence of the Lambs)

Budget: $26,000,000

IMDB rating: 7.7

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l433n5zAxAU

38. Erin Brokovich (2000, USA)

Julia Roberts, Albert Finney, Aaron Eckhart

Here’s another classic David and Goliath story which puts viewers on the edge of their seats, immersed in a struggle against brutal injustice; cheering with each step forward and hurting with each step back. Roberts is dynamite as the bold and gritty unlikely hero and the emotional payoff is grand. As with all films on today’s list: extra Kleenex required.

Writer: Susannah Grant (The Soloist)

Director: Steven Soderbergh (Ocean’s Eleven)

Budget: $52,000,000

IMDB rating: 7.3

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_2GvrAQMNoU

Short List:

Reservation Road (2007, USA/Germany) Mark Ruffalo, Joaquin Phoenix

Midnight Express (1978, UK/USA) Brad Davis, Irene Miracle, Bo Hopkins

The Visitor (2007, USA) Richard Jenkins, Haaz Sleiman, Danai Gurira

The Whistleblower (2010, Canada/Germany) Rachel Weisz, Monica Bellucci, Vanessa Redgrave

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962, USA) Gregory Peck, John Megna, Frank Overton

Twelve Years a Slave (2013, USA/UK) Chiwetal Ejiofor, Michael Kenneth Williams

Dear Zachary: A Letter to a Son About His Father (2008, USA/Canada) Documentary by Kurt Kuenne